


(a)part

by CAPSING



Series: Finished, not Perfect [7]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9132061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAPSING/pseuds/CAPSING
Summary: Drax thinks about trees and friendship as he braids the hair of two very different people.(An alternative interpretation for the events in GotG, from Drax's perspective)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the movie couple more times, and took time to inspect Drax closely. I've noticed couple of interesting things, thus – this.

Truth is – and Drax is always truthful – that Drax is lost.

Staring at the rust-covered beam above his head, he realizes he can't recite any of his poems anymore. They are bits and pieces; they're meaningless, detached.

In the start of every daily cycle, when he catches a glimpse of his face in the murky mirrors, he finds himself afraid to admit a simple truth – that he no longer remembers their faces.

Quentacians are social beings by nature; evolution shaped them to be prone to tactility, cooperation and with an inherent inclination towards forming groups.

After the incident in Kwazermiea, Drax is forced to stand alone; he is amidst fools who share his predicament, incarcerated for petty crimes, surrounded by the weak cowards who force them through a dull routine each cycle.

He detests them both with every ounce of his being.

The fools parted with their families due to their greed, their anger, their lack of self-control.

The cowards claim to protect under written words, favoring to look at made-up signs instead of looking at the beings under their care.

At the end of each cycle, Drax recites the vows he took at that day, and his hearts ache, missing the sounds of his child laughing, the feeling of his wife's ankles tickling his. Now, Drax lives for a distant goal that gets him from cycle to cycle; between those, the allotted time he's been granted to rest is a time filled with guilt and pointless wishes made to spirits too far away to feel them.

 

Drax persists.

 

 

 

 

Drax is not the same man he was before.

Drax eats by himself, rests by himself, and is given a wide berth by all those who wish to remain intact. At the first third-mark of the cycle during which he chose to let the murderous-filth live some more, he walks to the dining area by himself. He is not hungry, but he knows he must eat, in order to persist.

His eyes drift towards her, soothing his need to verify her current position; he cannot trust her, and he cannot let himself stabbed in the back due to a lack of vigilance.

The filth is with the same pale-pink alien, and a furry little beast; they seem to listen to it avidly. The walking tree, which ripped Leduqiweq nose in the previous cycle, stands, its tray yet untouched. Drax regards the group; there's amiability among them, a kinship, seen even through their bickering.

And Drax _aches_.

He forces himself to remain in place; his instincts push at him to approach, to soon make place for himself in their group's hierarchy; his self tells him to draw nearer and listen to their conversation, to see if one of them has any sort of worthy intellect. The wench can be dealt with, he thinks, as she and the pink alien lean towards the beast. Drax wants to know what interests them so.

On his hip, he feels the weight of his newest possession – a long thin blade he’d taken from another, the night before. He had no one to share with for far too long, and the pain it causes him is far greater than any knife wound. He does not consider the small bald alien a comrade, much less a friend – but he had offered him the knife out of his own volition, unprompted, set it right into his empty palm. A part of Drax enjoys at acquiring a new object that was not previously his, while another parts laments at the lowly, unhonourable act of keeping such a thing as an actual _prize_.

He looks back at the tree, as it effortlessly grows taller and reaches for the inner works of one of the panels.

 

 

When the commotion starts, Drax is still; merely observing the events. The guards know better than attempt to attack him – they are cowards, but they are not fools.

(Another truth he does not acknowledge, is that the part of his self that used to keep him alert and vigilant has been too quiet for too long, stirred only when the wench-filth came along. Without it, cowards with weapons just don’t seem to matter.)

The guards to his right are poised to fire.

The beast clings to the tree; it looks desperate. It has no weapons. It had no reason to run into the fire – and not seek shelter, instead. Drax saw it as it ran, fell, rolled and tumbled under the bullets to climb the tree and sneer to it. Each shot sends more twigs and broken bark to cover the prison's floor.

One twig nudges against his shoe.

 

Drax recalls inquisitive eyes, shaped similarly to her mother's, looking up at him when Kamaria asked him at which age trees start walking.

When Drax told her trees can never walk, as they stay immobile at the same place their roots took, those eyes spilled tears.

 

( _"If they can't walk," Kamaria asks under a warm red sun, her voice distorted by her grief, "they can never meet other trees. What if they don't like the trees around them? What if the other trees don't like them? How will they make new friends?"_

_"Trees don't need friends," Drax says, because he is ignorant and foolish, and wipes away her tears.)_

 

There's a walking tree and a furry little beast scattering around its humanoid trunk. Their bond is palpable and noble and so very queer.

Drax can't shake the weird sight, the sirens blaring at the prison going unheard.

How could this tree be walking?

 

( _"What if they're lonely?"_ )

 

"The animal is in control!" one of the cowards shouts, "Fire on my command!"

 

( _"Trees don't get lonely."_

 _"Have you ever been lonely, Father?_ "

_"I have."_

_"What did you do?"_

_"There are times, Kamaria", Drax says as he gently parts her hair, "that there's nothing that can be done."_ )

 

His upper lip twitches.

Drax has two functional legs.

He jumps.

He shoves the first guard aside easily, already not paying him any mind as he turns to the second one. The coward tries to turn his weapon against him, but he's too clumsy, slow from a long period of idleness, and he misses. Drax can feel bones crunching against his left elbow.

 

( _His fingers deftly twist the groups of her hairs into shape, like his own father taught him. "– and now I've got you, as well." Drax deems the braid as an improvement from the previous attempt._

_"Are you planning to remain sitting here until nighttime?" Hovat scolds from behind him._

_"I haven't decided yet." Drax replies, considering, fingers still running along Kamaria’s bristly hair._ )

 

Drax feels almost gleeful; he might even be laughing. His own idleness aggravated him far further than he had estimated. The Nova Corps, with their long, senseless rules, imposed imprisonment upon him, due to what they considered _justice_ – another empty word in their alien mouth. Two swienlaqs passed, forcing Drax to pass each cycle in the comforts of a facility instead of searching for a way to execute his revenge upon Ronan.

The physical altercation is rejuvenating – adding up to unsetteling memories that whisper in his ears.

 

( _"Why can't I go with you?" Kamaria sulks, pulling out lush brown grass from the earth, her shoulders slumped ahead._

_"A child has no place within the delegation," he tells her, undoing the loose, sloppy braid Hovat attempted at the day before. "When I get back –"_

_"I’d be with mom, then! The spaceship is large enough to house two more, I’m sure she’s –"_

_"No, Kamaria," Drax cuts her off. "It's only for a couple of cycles."_

_"You'll be lonely." She says quietly._

_"I'll be apart from you," he corrects, "but I wouldn't feel lonely. Knowing I have a place to return to, how can I feel lonesome?"_

_The sunlight is warm against his bare head, the air is fresh and cool and his daughter’s thick mane is a source of comfort and joy he’d never grow tired of._

_"Your hair is getting longer," he changes the subject as he parts her hair._

_"When you're back," she asks hesitantly, "would you… shave my head for me?"_

_Drax feels the happiest he's been in a long time – imagining her braid hung on the wall, between the braids of her parents’._

_"It'd be my honour."_

_Kamaria leans back into his arms, warm as the sun – and he loves her so very much._

_"Would you think of me, even if I'm not there?"_

_"I shall. Even when you and your mother are not by my side, the memories we've created together are always close."_

_Kamaria smiles._ )

 

He disposes of the threat with the memories playing in his head, the guards not even qualified enough for him to actively destroy – one punches his cheek, but it barely registers – slams the last of them to the ground and grabs the nearest weapon.

 

(Ronan precedes Drax by two cycles.)

 

"Creepy little beast!" Drax calls it, and it turns to his direction, perking its ears.

 

(Drax never gets to shave her head.)

 

Drax throws it the weapon

 

(A drowning man throwing out a line, forming a connection based on a joint temporary purpose, to flimsily-connected individuals.)

 

When it starts shooting, it calls out a battle cry; the tree matches it, joining in.

They're in sync, and the mayhem is their own harmony.

 

 

 

The dynamics in the control room are making Drax uneasy. He’s just let loose his desire for battle, but he can’t hurt the wench yet – she’s bait for Ronan. He tries to focus on something to distract him from her presence, but finds nothing of value around. The man who has lain with an A'askavariian – the pink one – places Liur’s leg on the control panel, and the beast mocks him for it. The pink alien doesn’t seem pleased about it, growing louder and snappier.

Drax tries to manage his breathing.

Has Drax come to the wrong conclusion about them? Had he truly been so desperate, he’d seen what he wished for, instead of what’s there? It’s an unsettling thought – if a Quentacian does cease to understand reality as it is, it’s the first sign that their mind is no longer reliable, and that they shall perish soon.

Drax hadn’t avenged them yet.

He must persist.

“How are we gonna leave?" he cuts in to disperse the building animosity; when the beast doesn’t provide a clear answer, he thinks maybe this isn’t a good time to judge their interaction – they’re stressed.

“Cease your yammering,” he tells the beast, “and relieve us from this irksome confinement.” He directs it towards actions, instead.

"Yeah, I'll have to agree with the walking _thesaurus_ on that one."

Drax is quick to establish boundaries, and holds his temper with the new group; instead of breaking the pink alien to pieces, he merely intimidates him into speaking properly.

"It's just a metaphor, dude," the alien's body shrinks away and his head bows, breaking eye-contact, in what Drax deems an appropriate display of submission.

"His people are completely literal,” the beast says, and Drax cheers; maybe it _is_ intelligent, after all. "Metaphors," it uses the unclear words again, "are just gonna go over his head."

"Nothing goes over my head," Drax is quick to preen before the group, "my reflexes are too fast. I would catch it."

The wench calls them idiots, but Drax ignores her – her presence is temporary at best. She tries to hasten the beast to action, and the beast's tones turn angry.

The second blast rocks the cell; the pink alien, the one which Drax favors most – even with his unclear communication skills – seems stressed and frightened. His reactions to the attacks are clearly distressed, but his companions do nothing.

"I recognize this animal!" Drax tries to share a fond memory to ease the growing tension, turning to the pink alien "We'd roast them over the flames pit as children–" the pink alien turns to him “– their flesh was quite delicious." He grins, friendly.

"Not helping!" the beast spits.

So Drax doesn’t say any more.

 

 

 

“I can barely see,” Drax’s squints his eyes at the depths of Ronan’s ship, when the door to their own smaller ship closes behind them. He doesn’t know if the others can – they have unusually dark eyes, so perhaps they adjust quickly to dark spaces – Gamora already stepped so far ahead he can’t even make her shape. It’s important to communicate their limitations to each other, less one of them would impose on the others in what is going to be their last mission.

Wordlessly, Groot raises an arm – and countless glowing spores light-up the gloomy hall, drifting in the air, spreading wonder and awe into Drax’s being.

“When did you learn to do that?” He asks, not managing to look away from them.

“I’m pretty sure the answer is _I am Groot_ ,” Quill says.

“The flight deck is three-hundred meters this way,” Gamora voice cuts through Drax’s musings, and he find himself eager to speak out the emotions that swell within him, to let them out to light up their fresh bonds and bask them in warmth, to make them clearer, more defined.

“I want you all to know that I am grateful for your acceptance after my blunders.” He looks at them to judge their reactions, but none are looking back at him. "It is pleasing to once again, have–“ Drax holds himself from saying the word he wishes to say and replaces it with “– friends.”

 

 

The enemy drops from the shadows to stand before them. Her body is patches upon patches of metals and blue skin, and her black and soulless eyes are fitting for one of Ronan’s minions. She’s poised to strike, but chooses to lash out with her words first.

“Gamora,” she spits the name, “look at what you have done! You have always been _weak_ ,” her teeth clench at the last word, every word she speaks is skewered and twisted like her skin. “You stupid, traitoro–“

Drax shuts her up.

"Nobody," Drax stresses, " _talks_ to my friends like that,"

Because words have power, have meaning – words are the essence of the bonds between individuals, and to insult his friends is the same as assaulting their person. Drax only found them – only found himself a place among them, an uncertain, fragile thing he tries to keep – and he wouldn’t let any harm come to them in their short remaining time together.

None of them thank him, or repeat the words or the gesture – but none dispute them, either, and it’s enough for now.

 

 

 

Together, they defeat Ronan.

And even if they happen to be an imbecile, a dumb tree, a creepy beast and a green whore – nowadays, come lunchtime, Drax no longer eats by himself.

* * *

 

**+1**

 

"Can I," Drax gathers courage, "can I braid your hair?

Gamora is utterly still for a few moments, before giving a small stiff nod. He’d been meaning to ask that of her for a while, now – the temptation was too great to conquer. Quill shore his mane regularly, Rocket didn’t have enough of it and Groot didn’t have any of it. Gamora, however, kept her hair long and loose around her head, making the itch in Drax’s fingertips almost constant.

They sit on her bunk; Gamora is tense and Drax is aware of the effort it takes her to expose her back to him for such a prolonged period of time. Her hair is different from his daughter's; it's oily and clumpy, rigid at parts.

They don't talk; Drax is thankful to lose himself through the motions, coming to focus only when he's tying the ends of the hair with a small piece of green cloth he purchased from a merchant, two stops ago.

The braid looks sloppy; Gamora's hair doesn't sit still, causing the intended symmetrical lines to skew and slide according to its unfathomable will.

He undoes it and tries again. All the while, Gamora sits still, her back armored straight, her posture flawless as if she is the one with metal through her skeleton. He’d never get to cut such a braid, he muses; with Gamora growing out her hair once it’s done, if ever, it’d lost all its significance, anyhow – it wouldn’t be permanent. It wouldn’t matter.

The second attempt to braid her hair looks worse than the first one.

The ribbon, however, comes off just like he remembers.

 

 

"You look different," Quill squints his eyes towards Gamora at dinner, chewing with his mouth open. The process is unpleasant to look at.

"I am Groot," Groot peeps from his pot, Rocket humming in response as he fiddles with another one of his inventions, only half-minding his food.

"Doesn't look that much different to me," he shrugs at Groot

Quill continues staring at Gamora, expression swaying between confused and suspicious. It takes him until after they finish cleaning up.

"I've got it! You– your hair–" He clears his throat, skin turning pinker, "– looks, uh – nice. Nicer! It's always nice, just this time–"

"Thank you," she replies evenly, running her hand from the base of her skull along her braid, bringing it forwards, letting it drop against her shoulder.

"Drax did it for me."

 

 

 

Many, many cycles after that event, when the braiding is a ritual between them, Gamora will be the first to break the silence.

"I've never had someone braiding my hair, before."

Drax's fingers keep as he thinks of what he should share in turn.

“It’s been a long time,” it’s difficult to say it, “since I’ve had someone’s hair to braid, before…” he trails off, unsure in how to continue, shifting his focus back to the motions his fingers go through without any effort on his part.

 _Before_ – the period of time before ‘Now’ – is an indefinite term that has several meanings depending on context, a confusing concept Drax had learnt to recognize – while it means _before_ joining as a group, it means a different thing to each one of them.

For Quill, _before_ is his time with The Ravagers, an unhappy childhood among thieves and wrongdoers that left him craving for approval and affection.

For Gamora, _before_ is her time under the loathsome being known as Thanos, the epitome of all that is evil in the galaxy and beyond it; it is a time of despair and unimaginable horrors that seemed to never end.

For Rocket, _before_ is his time at the labs; a long period of unwarranted torture that left him cautious and devious, quick to bite and lash out.

For Groot, _before_ is a time before meeting Rocket, swaying along universe with his roots ripped out, each step painful – but not as painful as being alone.

Even if their _befores_ are different, they are still the same – they are lonely, they are incomplete, and most importantly – they are in the past, and no longer true.

 

"Is this…" Gamora hesitates, her tone so collected Drax recognizes she’s hiding a great discomfort, "is this what _family_ feels like?"

She sounds hopeful and confused and curious and sad.

"It is,” he tells her rigid back, “to me."

Drax finishes by tying the braid with a worn, faded-green ribbon.

 

And it's perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are much appreciated! ♥ Constructive criticism as well!
> 
> Consider this:  
> Drax is in for killing 22 people; he's always by himself. When Rocket explains the plan to Peter and Gamora, Drax stops and just looks at them, then at Groot. What especially caught my interest is when Drax joins the fighting – Drax only joins when the guards are about to shoot Rocket; he doesn't know Rocket has a plan to escape the prison, doesn't know anything about the connection between Peter, Gamora and Rocket, he doesn't have any reason to join the fighting. He didn't help Groot, he chose to join only after Rocket was in danger due to running into the fire.  
> tldr Drax secretly wants everyone to hold hands and eat rainbows and wear sparkling friendship-bracelets


End file.
